


black fly; chardonnay

by blacksatinpointeshoes



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Post-Rome, This is basically a result of remembering that Lydia mentioned, how much sasha liked Wilde and would miss him, sO this is that you are welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:34:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22879558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacksatinpointeshoes/pseuds/blacksatinpointeshoes
Summary: Cel gives Wilde an awkward punch on the shoulder, and Wilde rubs at the spot without really giving it much thought. “You know?” they repeat, and Wilde scoffs under his breath.“Close,” he says, tilting his head, “but no. Sasha… did not like me very much.”Or, a reflection, and a surprise.
Relationships: Azu & Oscar Wilde, Celiquillithon “Cel” Sidebottom & Oscar Wilde, Sasha Racket & Oscar Wilde
Comments: 41
Kudos: 146





	black fly; chardonnay

**Author's Note:**

> HI IM BACK FROM THE WAR
> 
> title from “ironic” from jagged little pill

There’s a smile on Wilde’s lips, but it’s stiff. “Well then,” he says, as Hamid’s eyes blur around the reminder of Sasha’s scratchy handwriting, “I’ll leave you to your devices. Certainly the lot of you were closer to her than I was.” 

Hamid doesn’t respond. Neither does Azu, looking down at the sheafs of enchanted paper like they’re lifelines, one strong hand splayed across Hamid’s back. Zolf just looks shell-shocked. Cel looks to Wilde and jerks their thumb over their shoulder, mouthing,  _ “I’m getting out of here.”  _

Wilde follows. It’s not his moment. It’s not his grief. It’s not his— his Sasha. She didn’t belong to anyone, but she willingly gave pieces of her spirit to her friends, and Wilde simply did not meet the criteria. No harm done. 

“You alright, buddy?” Cel asks as Wilde nearly walks into a wall, and he chuckles. 

“Absolutely fine. Harlequin headquarters aren’t exactly my forte, you see,” he explains with a careless wave, pulling a handkerchief out of his breast pocket for no other reason than to have something to do with his hands. 

Cel doesn’t look convinced. “Why aren’t you in there with them?” 

“Should I be?” Wilde asks, going for bemused and only narrowly missing the mark. 

“Well,” Cel says, rubbing their hands together in the tell-tale sign of a logical ladder about to unfold, “those letters, they’re from that Sasha person that Hamid and Zolf and Azu mentioned, right? And I mean, like, I’m not a scientist or anything—” They wink. “—that’s a joke, I am a scientist, but Zolf said that Sasha was around when you were their handler, and that seems—  _ seems— _ to imply that you knew Sasha, and you know Hamid and Zolf pretty well, so I can only imagine you knew Sasha pretty well, right? So you should be in there with them. See if you can decipher any of those notes, you know?” 

Cel gives Wilde an awkward punch on the shoulder, and Wilde rubs at the spot without really giving it much thought. “You know?” they repeat, and Wilde scoffs under his breath. 

“Close,” he says, tilting his head, “but no. Sasha… did not like me very much.” 

_ “You?”  _ Cel says, surprised, and Wilde only knows that they’re being genuine because Cel has never been any other way. “No! But you’re so— you! You know, competent, and organise-y, and you know where places are, and you’re— you know—” Cel drops their voice in a poor imitation, “—‘This is for the greater good of the entire world, someone ought to be responsible and I might as well take the damage even if I don’t have the hit points—’” 

“That’s enough,” Wilde says mildly. “Hit points?” 

“Bit of an inside joke!” Cel looks ready to explain, but Wilde just shakes his head, and they go serious again. “But seriously, Wilde, I can’t imagine how  _ permanent  _ this ‘not liking you’ thing was. You’re really not that unlikeable, and I should know, I have met  _ many  _ unlikeable people. Like war criminals! I have met  _ war criminals.  _ And like, you’re a bit skinny, but I don’t really think that’s enough to hold a grudge—”

“Cel?”

“Yes?” 

“Can you drop it?” 

Cel looks him dead in the face — damn half-elves for being so tall — and frowns, then goes quiet. “Sure.” 

“Thank you.” Wilde swallows, puts his handkerchief back in his pocket. “And thank you for being kind, but—”

“It wasn’t that nice.” 

Wilde cups a hand over his mouth and stage-whispers,  _ “Politeness.”  _ Cel makes finger guns in understanding and lets him continue. “I was a very different person when Sasha knew me.” 

Cel raises a brow. “A war criminal?” 

“Just… loud.” 

“Ah.” Cel nods, then frowns. “I don’t get it.” 

“It’s…” Wilde snaps his fingers. “It’s like I was a song that people didn’t want to listen to, but the song was so loud that they couldn’t ignore it, even if they tried.” 

“That sounds amazing!” Cel exclaims, and Wilde’s lips twitch up into a half-smile. “What happened?” 

“I…” Wilde leans against a still-standing wall, exhales. “I learned to sing quieter.” 

Cel studies him.  _ “That’s  _ messed up.” 

“It’s better like this.” 

“I think  _ you  _ need to learn what ‘better’ means, because that does  _ not  _ qualify,” Cel says, folding their arms. “Hasn’t Zolf been getting on your case about ‘healthy coping mechanisms’? Because he’s been getting on  _ ours,  _ and honestly he’s onto something, like getting out your traumas in a controlled environment instead of just letting it bottle up and having it be expressed in ways that could be detrimental to yourself or others, but like,  _ you  _ should definitely get some of those, too.” 

“Coping mechanisms?” 

_ “Healthy  _ coping mechanisms,” Cel corrects. “No offence, Wilde, but yours kind of suck.” 

This makes him laugh, wide and loud. “None taken.” 

Cel offers a fist bump, and Wilde, much to their surprise, returns it. They settle into a companionable silence, looking out over the scorched Roman landscape nearby.

Sasha had set up camp close enough to see the ruins, but not quite inside the city confines. So close to the barrier, the toppled columns paint a jagged cautionary tale of pride and fear. Wilde stares. Eighteen months are not nearly enough to feel any sort of closure. He hadn’t even been lucid enough to say goodbye to Grizzop, not like Grizzop would’ve wanted to. 

_ “The others have gone to Rome—” _

_ “Rome?” _

_ “—Yes, Rome; Einstein took them, yes, Einstein—” _

Those three seconds flash before Wilde’s eyes for the millionth time since Grizzop left the Temple of Artemis. At first he’d been certain it was another dream, another one of  _ those  _ nightmares where his charges were snatched by forces beyond his control, and Grizzop told him, spitting curses, or Sasha told him, weeping blood, or Hamid told him, razor-sharp, or Zolf told him, simply exhausted, or Azu told him, with no love in her heart. 

This had to be the time he didn’t wake up. 

“Oscar?” 

Wilde spins on his heel, straightening his shoulders, a light smile crinkling his eyes before he can even process who’s said his name. It’s Azu, holding a stack of papers. Sasha’s papers, clearly enchanted to survive the passage of time, clearly meant to be found. Wilde slips his hands into his pockets, casually. 

Azu’s eyes track the movement, and damn her for looking so  _ empathetic.  _

“I take it you’re finished?” he says around the lump in his throat, and Azu shakes her head. 

“They’re for you,” she tells him, her voice rough and husky, like she’s been crying. 

“What?” 

“Sasha left letters for— for all of us. And— these are the ones in your pile.” 

_ “What?”  _

“S-so far, anyway,” Azu says, hiccoughing through a watery smile. “She— we keep finding where she was hiding them. So there might be more.” 

“I—”

“I didn’t mean to look, but we had to, to see who they were addressed to,” Azu continues in a rush, “and— so— a good deal of them are just drafts of puns? I— oh.” 

And suddenly the tears Wilde has been struggling to hold back become impossible to ignore. “Wilde, I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s fine—” He can feel them, hot, sticky, salty, sliding down his cheeks, awkwardly catching on his chin, that he’s  _ crying,  _ that she— that Sasha Rackett, an invaluable talent with a softer soul— that she extended so much courtesy as to remember him in exile. Wilde is just standing there, trying to still the shaking, and hears Azu hand the papers off to Cel with a slight rustle. 

“May I…?” she asks, softly, raising her arms, and Wilde is tall, but Azu is hefty enough that she makes him feel tiny when she hugs him, no questions asked, no answers needed. 

Wilde  _ cannot  _ be doing this, he can’t. He can’t be standing here, gasping for breath around the threat of sobs, anchored only by the hum of Azu’s armour and the promise of an unending love. He’s supposed to be stronger than this, more stoic than the implications resting in scrawled chicken scratch. He’s supposed to be able to keep it together, for the rest of them. 

“We miss her too,” Azu says, gently, softly, and it’s all Wilde needs to hear. 

He’ll read the letters. They will be unmistakably Sasha, her voice so clear and strong in the words that she could be standing next to him, speaking out loud. He’ll read the letters alone in his office, alone with grief and love and closure and recollection. 

He’ll read the letters alone, and he won’t be alone at all. 

**Author's Note:**

> go stream the underwood collection on Spotify Apple podcasts and google play follow us on Twitter @pitchlibrary for more informa


End file.
